


Garage Palace

by GhostHost



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Deadlock is deadlock, Drinking, Kinda, Not everyones dead, Ratchet and Deadlock vs the apocalypse, Ratchet has secrets, Ratchet just thinks they all are, facing addictions, ish themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-01-29 11:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12629994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostHost/pseuds/GhostHost
Summary: Ratchet fought to the end--but he also expected to die there. He did not expect to be the last one standing, left in the dust of a desperate last act of a war that, for all appearances, has murdered his entire race.He also didn't expect the only other mech alive on the damn planet to be Deadlock.Now he's searching for any other signs of life, murderous Decepticon with an unhealthy obsession with him in tow.(The fact that that obsession may or may not be returned is something he's Not Thinking About, thanks.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I rage wrote like half this fic yesterday. It's all short chapters, mostly vignettes but they're all in order. I kinda wanted to play with the idea of what Deadlock would be like if he never encountered Wing or anything like him, so the person he evolves into stays closer to his Deadlock side than IDW Drift. 
> 
> Warnings: In this chapter, none. In the next chapter, a lot lol.

CH 1 

This Clock Doesn't Own A Home

* * *

 

The worlds in ruins.

Multiple worlds, in fact, and a good half of space and time.

Deadlock didn’t expect any less from the apocalypse.

He was surprised he had survived it, however. The only one, apparently. Or at least, the only in this quadrant. 

He walked the wasteland, noting how nothing was burning anymore and yet a haze of smoke still filtered around the devastation. Grey, destroyed bodies and the skeletons of buildings were his only companions for days, while he searched for--something.

A fight, most likely.

He didn’t know how to do anything else.

The Decepticons had created monsters out of their own people, towering, terrible things that morphed six or more unstable minds into one uncontrollable killer. The Autobots had followed them right over the edge and finally, after hundreds of thousands of years, they’d found the answer to how the great war would end. 

_ “Place your bets” Swindle had purred around a gloom-lit table, practically a lifetime before. “Decepticons win the war, Autobots win the war or--” his visor glinted, helping highlight a jagged smile, “we kill each other.”  _

Somewhere, a bunch of dead mechs owed Deadlock some credits.

He didn’t know how long he’d been wandering. He’d had the smarts to siphon energon from the dying after his last battle, and had enough of it to keep him going for a while. He was used to cannibalizing others like that--every Decepticon was. It was part of their training, of how they’d kept ahead of the Autobots energon consumption and creation. He’d seen others struggle with the morality and ideology of it but he never had.

It was just something you did when you grew up where Drift had. 

The only thing he kept track of was how much he had left and how much he was willing to starve himself. His last battle seemed forever ago and with the land growing cold around him, the horizon motionless, he figured he’d either have to figure out a way off the planet or decide if he wanted to simply end things here.

The last Decepticon standing. 

His mind balked at taking his own life, but he hated the idea of succumbing to starvation even more, if only because to avoid it had been his main goal for over half his life. 

Just because the Decepticons guaranteed you fuel didn’t mean you’d get it.

He hadn’t contemplated the idea long when the universe decided to make the decision for him.

An explosion lit ahead, a small fireball of fury and Deadlock was chasing it instantly before he’d even realized he’d transformed. 

The smoke billowed around a ship and battle-lust shot through the berserker.

A ship like that, mostly whole, easily recoverable, meant there were people about. People meant a fight. 

A fight was all Deadlock needed to feel alive. 

The figure that staggered out the doors choking  hadn’t noticed him, didn’t notice him as Deadlock flipped into rootmode. His frame was covered in grime and ash, hand waving rapidly as to clear his vents and Deadlock had identified six weak points and drawn his guns before the guy spat curses. 

“--massive, absolute,  _ fragger _ of a --”

He knew that voice. He knew that swear. 

Deadlock’s shots went wide as the figure spun, finally registering his presence. 

The Decepticon aborted his psychical-attack, the momentum forcing him on his knees and sliding him nearly to the other mechs pedes. Red optics met blue, startled expressions on both their faces. There was no denying who they were facing.

“Ratchet.” Deadlock said nearly like a prayer, identifying the mech he was --literally--looking up at. 

“--douchenozzle.” Ratchet finished lamely.   
  


xXx

 

Deadlock, frame clearly cracked from barely-healed battle wounds and smeared with dirt, energon and Primus-knew what else, was looking up at him like he’d been looking for a turbofox and found God instead. 

“...Douchenozzle?” The Con repeated,  tone inflicting a question while he tasted the foreign word. 

“It’s an insult. Human.” Ratchet didn’t bother to specify which language, Deadlock wouldn’t know. 

“Is it... a type of instrument?” The mech asked again, making no effort to raise himself from his knees. His hands remained at his sides, guns held easily in each one. He’d been attacking and had just--stopped. Stopped and was making conversation, as if Ratchet’s last hope off this planet wasn’t smoking to his left and everyone else around was dead. 

“It’s--nonsensical. A mix of words, like pitfragger.” He said, because if he didn’t talk he’d break.

Deadlock seemed to consider that, red optics, dipping into a slow blink. 

They considered each other, Ratchet half hysterically because  _ of all the mechs, _ he’d gotten Deadlock.

Ratchet had watched their numbers dwindle, patching up mechs only to send them right back into battle, repeating the cycle until he’d confirmed more deaths than he had saved lives. He’d done it until he no one else had come to him, done it until he had failed so horrifically that he was the only one alive. He’d been alternating between cursing and praying to the god he swore he didn’t believe in to give him just one sign of life. Any life, Autobot, Decepticon, a fucking organic _ rat, _ he didn’t care. 

He needed--something. Anything.

And here he was. 

_ Deadlock. _

That was it. Primus, absolutely did exist, and he was a cruel, cruel being. 

Ratchet felt the urge to swear himself over to Unicron, as the mech finally rose from his crouch. Quick trained movements had him holstering his guns, optics moving from Ratchet’s face to his body and then to the ship. Scanning, considering, thinking.

Ratchet  _ knew  _ what the mech was thinking. 

There was a reason he’d kept well away from the mech during the war, and it had nothing to do with the berserker's reputation, fraction or kill-list. 

It was because Deadlock considered Ratchet _ his.  _

This wasn’t going to end well. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man three days in-between updates is a new record for me. That's never gonna happen again haha. 
> 
> Obviously this fic is inspired by the Gorillaz "Garage Palace" but Zayde Wolf's "The Jungle" had a lot to do with it too. Plus dat apocalyptic pixel art in both my God. 
> 
> Sidenote, I played ever so slightly with Drift and Ratchet's backstory to give Drift a heavier attachment to Ratchet--and Ratch, the attachment to Drift. I also don't know why they keep ending up on Delos in my fics, it just seems to happen. Maybe I'm subconsciously protesting the Westworld Season 2 release date idk. 
> 
> Warnings: These are gonna sloooowly ramp up as we go but right now but this fic deals with typical war themes. Discussions of murder, death, assassination, etc. This chapter's got some thick ol' possession in it too, and possessive behavior.

CH 2

There's a Rhythm in the Buzz, Pulse Pounding and it's Getting Loud

* * *

Ratchet was going to fix the ship, get it into space-flight shape, and leave in desperate search of any other signs of life.

Deadlock was coming with him.

Considering the functional handguns, the shotgun and no doubt _numerous_ other weapons hidden all over the Con’s body, Ratchet wasn’t exactly in a position to refuse. Deadlock’s satisfied, smug smirk said he knew that and was happy he wasn’t being challenged.

It really was a statement on Ratchet’s own health that he wasn’t. As it was this whole thing felt like a bizarre dream, had since the combiners had gone berserk--

_‘Combiners you didn’t want to build,  combiners they built anyway, without you, until you gave in and helped. Would they have been more stable if you had put your pride aside? Would they have lived? Would anyone have?’_

\--and he just wasn’t up for a confrontation with one of the Decepticons elite soldiers. Nevermind the fact that any discussion with Deadlock felt akin to navigating a primed minefield blind.

Ratchet hadn’t even asked him why he wanted to come. Just accepted it, turned to the spaceship and pointed out what went wrong.

It was better than the alternatives.

It took three days (Earth time, not Cybertronian, because it was the only chronometer Ratchet had that still worked) to get it fixed. Three days, and two nights of Deadlock--of accepting him in his space, of dodging questions and conversations and questioning his own sanity. Of wondering if offlining himself would just be easier than this--if wondering why he hadn’t was because it was so stupidly _easy_ to be with the ‘Con. Co-existing with Deadlock, _working_ with Deadlock should have been anything _but,_ and yet, here they are.

Ratchet told himself it was because he’d been alone. That he the reason he felt better, felt _focused  and alive_ wasn’t because it was Deadlock, but because it was a person.

Nothing more, nothing less.

They didn’t talk much beyond topics related to fixing the ship. Deadlock wasn’t the kind of mech one had a casual conversation with, something Ratchet was thankful for because it made it easier to pretend the ‘Con was someone else. They let the task absorb them as only soldiers could, let it take over their whole world and steadfastly ignored everything else until it was finished.

That didn’t stop Ratchet from pointing out the ship--a small carrier ship barely made for actual space-travel-only had one berth.

“We’ll take turns.” He said, the first time he saw it.

“We’ll share it.” Was Deadlock’s firm reply.

Ratchet ignored him.

He focused on little victories instead. They got the ship functional. Then space worthy. They launched the damn thing.

They made it into space without dying.

Small miracles.

It took several hours of monitoring to make sure the ship stayed functional, and when it had proven itself Ratchet finally felt something in him relax. Allowed him to plan for a future, something he hadn't thought they'd get. 

“We’ll take shifts. I’ll take first watch.” He said, setting the ship’s absolutely outdated systems to scan for any other Cybertronians while active. Ratchet didn’t bother pushing it to go in any particular direction. Dumb, but he was low on recharge and good ideas.

Because hell if he’d actually _recharge_ around _Deadlock._ Working with him didn’t mean trusting him. Ratchet didn’t even trust himself at this point.

Speak of the devil… “No.” Deadlock said, voice steel.

_‘Fuck.’_

Ratchet briefly closed his optics, knowing this was coming. Knowing this had been building.

Deadlock had had something to focus on and so had Ratchet.

Now, they didn’t.

“This ship has an autopilot, and we are not going to drift aimlessly.” Drift--Deadlock--commanded, every inch the Decepticon legend. “Send it to Delos.”

“And if Delos was destroyed?” Ratchet kept his voice flat. Monotone, but not challenging. Delos had been--was-- a spaceport on the edges of the Combiner War territory. If nothing else, it likely had been evacuated.

“We see if there are any better ships there. If there are we take them, if not we scavenge and move on to the next.” Deadlock’s optics scanned the star map, showing them where they were. “The autopilot can handle getting us there.” He added after a moment.

 _‘Yeah,’_ Ratchet thought bitterly, _‘but I can’t handle_ you.’

Not really. Not trapped on a spaceship with nothing else to focus on and absolutely nothing to do.

A thought that was proven true not even an hour later. 

“We are not sharing a berth.” Ratchet growled, too tired to watch his tone, uncaring about what might happen if he didn’t. The medic had pushed himself too hard, was crashing in a way that  even the most oblivious could see, and he wasn’t stupid enough to think Deadlock hadn’t caught it.

Hadn’t caught that Ratchet hadn’t been sleeping.

 _‘You know better than this.’_ He told himself, anger warring with exhaustion. _‘You knew he was just waiting for you to crash.’_

“We are.” Deadlock replied, flopping down on said berth as though to prove a point. Ratchet was already on it, had already claimed it (because he hadn't been able to put off recharge now that they had succeeded, were _going_ somewhere.) and would now be forced to physically move the ‘Con if he wanted to protest further.

_Fragger._

“I meant it, Drift.” That got him no response, so the effort was made to heave himself up to his elbows. The glare he leveled at the gunner had made lesser ‘Cons run, but he wasn’t dealing with them.

Optics turned to him, lips showing a hint of fang in a smile that wasn’t friendly. “You want me to move so bad?” Deadlock’s tone walked the knife's edge of two kinds of dangerous, more than willingly to fall to either side. “Then make me.”

_Pitfragger._

They both knew he wasn’t going to take that challenge.

Silence stretched, Ratchet’s field flipping through emotions, _reactions_ , while Deadlock watched. Neither knew what the medic was going to land on.

Ratchet wasn’t going to let it go, they both knew that much.

The wheel spun, Ratchet’s mind landing on an answer. Maybe it was the wrong one. Maybe it was right. Deadlock’s field buzzed in anticipation as the CMO’s field abruplty lashed out.

“I’m not one of _yours_ , Drift.” He hissed, anger lancing his words. “Not a victim or a Decepticon. You can push all you like but you’re _not in charge here_.”

A flash of plating was the only warning Ratchet had. He knew how fast Deadlock moved, knew speed was a talent of his and yet was unprepared for it up close. Slammed down in an instant, back forced flat as a hand gripped his shoulders, and Ratchet’s vents hissed. Small pinpricks of pain bloomed under unleashed claws, the tips digging into his plating.

On one side of his his helm, a gun buzzed with charge.

Deadlock wasn’t heavy. Not in the same way Ratchet was--but he knew how to distribute his weight to destabilize an opponent. Not that Ratchet was struggling.

He knew a power play when he saw one.

“Care to repeat that?” Deadlock snarled and Ratchet knew what part he meant. Knew if he repeated it Deadlock would do something about it--and he was tired.

So, so, tired.

So he repeated the “correct” answer. The part that hadn’t triggered the possessive anger roaring through the field covering him.

“You are not in charge.” The anger was still there, seething, but it was backed by Ratchet’s own stubbornness. He wasn’t backing down. He wasn’t giving in. He was deliberately de-escalating a situation with a pissy, enemy berserker.

Drift could interpret it however he wanted but that was Ratchet’s truth.

Deadlock’s optics narrowed, then trailed obviously to the gun next to Ratchet’s head.  Not needed nor bothering, to voice his objection.

_‘Are you so sure of that?’_

The berserker had been calling all the bluff’s so far but it was long past time Ratchet called one of his. He stared those red optics dead on, his own voice flat.

“We both know you won’t kill me.” Harm him maybe, but not kill.  

_‘Because if you wanted to I’d be long dead.’_

This wasn’t their first encounter with each other. This wasn’t even their hundredth. Deadlock’s claim on Ratchet was more than well known, on both sides. Their “encounters” even more so.  It had kept Ratchet untouchable long before the lack of medics had forced both sides to ban their deaths.

Most thought it was some kind of sick obsession.

Which it was.

They just didn’t know it was _returned._

It was Ratchet’s greatest secret, half the reason he tried to drink himself to death when he couldn’t save a life. When he failed. When a spark shrunk, died, and left Ratchet with nothing but the knowledge that he not only couldn’t save people, but he couldn’t kill them either. Not when he should, not intentionally, not when it _mattered._

No he could only kill those he cared about, on his operating table.

They weren’t in love, or in lust. They weren’t sleeping together, though half their interactions ended up so charged that Ratchet wasn’t certain that that wasn’t Deadlock’s intent.

They were just mutually incapable of killing one another.

Because for all the times Deadlock had stayed his hand, Ratchet had held his.

He knew how to kill people. He knew how to incapacitate, poison, and use subterfuge to take down an opponent. He knew how to deactivate in two slices or less. He knew every inch of almost every frame-types’ anatomy, and he knew just how easily that knowledge could be used to harm.

He wasn’t innocent in this.

And Deadlock knew that too.

Now, he was going to have to face the mech he’d let live, while the ghost of the ones he killed haunted him.

 

xXx

Ratchet didn’t know what this was.

To be fair to him, Deadlock wasn’t so certain either.

What he did know was that Ratchet was _his._ He’d tried to forget about the medic once he’d left Dead End and found himself entirely unable. The thoughts of their shared talk, the fact Ratchet had stocked him up on energon and offered to get  him help, however he could. The idea that the medic hadn’t given up when Deadlock had disappeared, instead asking mechs if they’d heard news of him, and leaving out medical grade in places and yeah, so that last one hadn’t been just for him but he’d been _included._

Deadlock had checked up on him, back when he’d been Drift. Had kept anybody from robbing his place. Ratchet had his own group of loyal protectors, not that the mech seemed to know it. Drift had participated in that little group from the shadows.

He couldn’t count the times he’d tailed the medic home just to make sure he made it there safe.

Deadlock had believed himself dirty, back then. Tainted. Not worthy of sharing the same space as someone like Ratchet. Too embarrassed to ask for help and too unsure and socially awkward to try. So he did what he knew how to do, and kept the trouble off Ratchet by taking it on himself.

When he joined the Decepticons he learned quickly how that past was exploitable.

Some odd number of years later, when his (deeply, deeply) buried hopes of Ratchet becoming a ‘Con where horribly dashed, Deadlock made peace with the fact that he was going to have to kill him.

Too many mechs knew.

Ratchet was too deeply linked to his past.

He’d steeled himself. Told himself. Ratchet was a _weakness._ Got himself so hyped up over it that nothing else mattered until the medic was dead.

Then they’d crossed each other. Deadlock, with a gun to the newly minted CMO’s head, more than convinced the mech didn’t even know his killer. He’d been two seconds to squeezing the trigger when Ratchet had croaked out his name. His real name.

_“Drift.”_

It hit. It shouldn’t have been a hit but it was, and it had landed.

Ratchet had remembered him. Ratchet _knew_ him, even now, with all the paint and the modifications.

The pause was long enough for Ratchet to escape his grasp and Deadlock, shocked to the core, let him go. Didn’t chase after him.

It was as if all the doors Deadlock had tried to close had blown open. Such a small thing, this recognition and yet Deadlock couldn’t help but treat it like a gift.

He’d made two more attempts after that before deciding his only option was to grow strong enough that no one would consider Ratchet a target. Strong things collected weak things after all. He’d seen Megatron do it, had seen generals and leaders all across the ‘Cons do it. Had even seen some do it to Autobots.

If he played his cards right, if he gave all he had, he could ignore this entire thing. Sort it out later. And keep Ratchet alive until he had.

Deadlock had accomplished two of those things. He had ignored every feeling that had to do with Ratchet, and he’d kept Ratchet alive. Here now, lean frame laying over Ratchet’s, one hand on the medic’s shoulder and the other on a gun, Deadlock had to admit that he was going to have to face the third.

He was going to have to sort this out.

This time however, Ratchet was going to have to sort this out with him. That thought swirled deliciously in his spark, bringing a smirk to his face.

Ratchet tensed under him, no doubt thinking Deadlock had decided on hurting him, if no other reason than because Ratchet had called him out.

The berserker had other ideas.

Other thoughts and things to try.

Decepticons didn’t do chaste and they sure as hell didn’t do “gentle.” Deadlock didn’t know how to do either but he did know how to ask--so he did. He moved slow but the press of his lips was hard against Ratchet’s own.

It was entirely worth it to feel the field under him explode.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote myself in and out of sex twice on this chapter. Then I was reminded that you can have sex AND fight and all my problems were thus solved. 
> 
> Let the fun parts start! 
> 
> Warnings: Biting, marking, rough sex, angry sex (Ratchet calls it hate sex but we allll know its more than that) teasing, slight pain, mentions of death, murder and killing, minor dub-con at the beginning, etc. More war themes, pining, sleep deprivation, Deadlock being a confused sad murder puppy because Ratchet's being more Autobot than he thought he'd be lol.

I Know You Need This

* * *

Drift--Deadlock--was _kissing_ him.

On the mouth.

Rather insistently.

Ratchet didn’t physically react, even if his field rioted around him. Couldn’t. Because if he did, he’d have to push Drift away.  Should be pushing Drift away! Should be yelling, screaming, fighting--something!--instead of…

Casually accepting it.

Not so casually _wanting_ it.

 _‘Is this really what all this was about?’_ He thought wildly, optics open even when they wanted to close. _‘Is this what_ I _wanted?’_

Stupid question. Stupid _, stupid_ question but it was all he could think about. Endless thoughts in endless circles edging the CMO closer to a breakdown. He just couldn’t decide if that break was going to be snapping and attacking Drift or snapping and fucking him through the berth.

_‘The fact you know which one you prefer should tell you something, idiot.’_

Things had been so easy to push away when he’d been involved in a war. When Ratchet had access to work and high grade and endless people to keep his processor occupied. The darker thoughts, the _desires,_ only came at the worst times and even those had grown rarer as desperation mounted. Work had consumed Ratchet’s life, his spark, and he’d let it. Because he knew what would happen if he didn’t, had known it every time Drift’s faceplates had dared to appear. Each time the gunner strode into his life and left Ratchet _alive._

Painfully, tauntingly, alive.

His thoughts held him immobile and after a minute with no response Deadlock stopped. The gun had disappeared off somewhere, the threat of it no longer needed and a question was forming on Deadlock's faceplate's. 

Ratchet didn’t know what to do about that either.

 _“Might as well just frag him.”_ A voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Jazz said. _“Live a little. Not like anyone else can.’_

Because everybody else was dead.

Which was something Ratchet knew he couldn’t think about because it _would_ break him.

“What’s the matter?” He said, because he needed a distraction, _now_. “Couldn’t finish what you started?”

It was a taunt wrapped around a weird desperate hope that Drift would slam his lips back down, only this time Ratchet would react, wouldn’t be able to hold back…

The Con’s faceplates scrunched, confused. At Ratchet’s obvious arousal and refusal to do anything about it. His head tilted, finials twitching in a way that immediately caught the medics attention as the ‘Con puzzled it out. Made a decision.

Ratchet had to cut back a moan when that decision was to sit up, withdrawing himself and his field.

“I’m not in the habit of forcing an interface.” Deadlock said, optics growing guarded. 

“No,” Ratchet agreed, “just killing unnecessarily.”

 _‘Stupid.’_ He thought instantly as Deadlock’s field jerked from lust right back to something dark. _‘_ _Looks like that’s gonna be the theme of today.’_

But he wasn’t one to hold his tongue, never had been. He’d needed to steer--this--somewhere, _get control back,_ and this is what he’d come up with. An entirely awful, idiotic place to move the conversation to while the CMO was literally pinned under the Con with his array running painfully hot.

He blamed the sleep deprivation.

It didn't change the fact he wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything--but it felt like giving in. To Deadlock, to the Decepticons, to the fact that the war was over. It didn’t matter how aroused he was, how much he’d fantasized about those deadly fingers teasing the crevices of his armor. How he hadn't even cared about the fragging gun, because he'd known it for the bluff it was. 

Ratchet was the first to admit how emotional he got. He needed something for this to continue. Some kind of answer or response from Deadlock. From _Drift._

Not an answer to the war or the fighting or the fact that everyone was likely dead.

Just--something.

Ratchet himself wasn’t quite sure what it was.

 _‘It could have been Drift’s tongue.’_ Came Jazz’s voice again and Ratchet didn’t bother to fight the frown off his face.

At least Deadlock wouldn’t lie. He had no need to. It was well known how much he enjoyed killing.

“So do your Wreckers.” Deadlock challenged back, and smirked when Ratchet hissed.

It was an argument they’d had before, and argument that still haunted him, because the gunner was right. If you were to take certain parts of each faction, compare certain mechs directly…

You’d find that more times than not, they weren’t that different.

That Deadlock enjoyed his kills more than the average mech and was praised for it was a fact that could be compared directly to Autobots who did similar jobs and had praised lobbed at them, for the exact same reason.

Battle-hunger didn’t differentiate sides, after all.

“The ones that get out of control are court-martialed. The Wreckers are carefully profiled.” Ratchet defended because similarities be damned, there was a difference! There was! It took the form of mechs who kept the others in check. The morals the Autobots held.

_‘The morals that are holding you back from a real nice time, my mech. It’s all over, both sides lost. Let it go.’_

If Ratchet ever saw Jazz again he was going to hit him.

(Some deep, deep part of him hoped and prayed that he could hit him. Then cling to him tightly and refuse to let the idiot out of his sight. Just as he would if any of them were alive…)

Besides, he argued with himself, this was different. An individual was separate from a group. A group from it’s faction and over-all, the Autobots made more attempts to save and respect life--all life--then the ‘Cons did. They wanted peace for everyone, instead of life under a tyrannical rule. Drawing a parallel to them was an _excuse._ Not whatever answer Ratchet was looking for.

Not the admittance of---frag.

Something.

The nameless thing that the medic was slowly realizing was his own poor excuse to fight against how much he wanted this to happen.

“True freedom is not something you are given, it’s something you fight for.” Deadlock quoted, and Ratchet immediately recognized the source. “Something is only a given right when it can be easily defended.”

“Why not quote the rest of it?” Ratchet challenged, blue optics staring into red. “‘Freedom is the right of every sentient being is fine until someone decides you aren’t sentient.’ That’s what he always said, wasn’t it? At all those rallies, to get them all to turn against the Prime? That people could decide for themselves if they were sentient? How many times have you and Megatron gone against that, Drift? How many times did the two of you _lie?”_

Death flooded Deadlock’s field. That’s what it felt like--a dark mix of bloodlust and anger and rage, overtaking it so fast that it could only be the berserker rising to the surface. Ratchet had wondered when he’d see it. The mech didn’t attack though. Or move at all, instead staying so that Ratchet remained pinned in place, the panels covering both their arrays burning each other with the lust they’d managed to maintain.

Turns out hate-sex was something they both could do.

“You gonna hit me?” Ratchet snarled, hips twitching, the movement drawing sparks between them.

“You?” Deadlock replied, voice as dark as his field. “Never.” His hips pressed back, a slow grind of pleasure.

Ratchet grit his teeth.“I don’t believe you.” He spat out.

The gunner folded back down, hands landing on either side of Ratchet’s head as Deadlock’s own lowered. “I don’t care.” He snarled back.

The ‘Con’s panels retracted as he made a rolling motion with his hips that allowed his spike to extend and rest between them. He’d laid it directly over Ratchet’s own overheating array and the knowledge that doing so must have hurt had Ratchet’s own panels pulling back instantly.

He wasn’t into pain play without consent, trust and a serious talk between himself and his partner but something about Drift always had made him senseless.

Valve pulsing, Ratchet expected to be spiked, hard. Certainly Deadlock had never done anything soft, and he’d absolutely not done it while flirting with the madness of a berserker-rage.

To say it was surprising when he found himself teased instead was an understatement.

He fought a moan as his legs parted, allowing Deadlock to sink lower, to roll his hips deeper. Which was exactly what the ‘Con did, rutting his spike against the flush, wet lining.

Ratchet’s hands balled into fists while Deadlock’s clawed the berth, the two of them going hard against each other. At one particular, forceful volly, the ‘Con slammed Ratchet’s hips down, pulled his own back, and proved himself as someone who could hit a moving target without looking.

“F- _uck!_ ” Ratchet gasped, as Deadlock’s spike rammed home the same time he bit down onto the medic’s throat. Fangs scored light grooves down a cable line while the pace picked up to something brutal. It was enough for Ratchet to lose himself in and he did just that, abandoning the attempts to match Deadlock’s pace and instead focusing on holding his hips up.

Pleasure built so quickly it felt like he’d been thrown into it. His orgasm hit--more of an explosive punch than anything poetic and Ratchet _screamed._ He knew he said Drift’s name-- he just wasn't sure which one he’d used. Whichever one it was it was effective. The ‘Con’s engines roared, his hips snapping down hard enough to force Ratchet up the berth, once, twice, and then he himself was coming.

Neither moved for a long time.

Ratchet lay back, Deadlock collapsed atop him, both fields mixing with an odd number of things neither wanted to discuss, both knowing the quiet would be broken if either so much as sighed.

 _‘Feel better?’_ The Jazz voice snarked.

Knowing it’d go unseen with Drift laying as he was, Ratchet gave it the middle finger.

xXx

 

This wasn’t going how Deadlock wanted.

Autobot’s weren’t simple. He knew this.

Everyone knew this.

Autobots, as a random, drunk Decepticon had explained once, were primarily made up of middle class mechs. Those too poor to avoid the war entirely, but not poor enough to feel its full effects. Mechs who didn’t understand the true _reason_ for the war.

Oh, they knew about some of it. How bad some of it had gotten because _of course_ they did. They understood what reached them, what affected them. They had fallen, desperately, from mechs who were protected to mechs who weren’t. The safety was removed, the illusion was shattered.

Even if they had been unhappy before, _punished_ before, they had the chance to live a safe life. They were supported if they simply followed the path the Functionalists laid out for them. They weren’t punished for living, only for _deviation_.

The poorer classes, the damaged and deranged, the mis-ordered and no-longer-needed MTO’s. Those _mechs_  had never known what it meant to fall, because they were already on the ground. They had started with struggle. They had their own rules, made purely so they could _survive._

Cold. The Autobot’s called them. Murderous, immoral, malicious.

The fact the Decepticon’s acknowledged those labels, accepted them and wore them, laughing all the while was the best show of the distance the classes--and now, factions--had grown more than anything else. They were practically two people, two cultures. Some of those who deemed themselves thinkers had written papers on the subject, entire novels even, with theories that determined this was why the war had lasted as long as it had. 

Autobots, the drunk mech conluded, couldn't read 'Con social cues for shit and had the worst habit of wanting to discuss morals in the middle of a frag session. Best not to berth them, he'd warned, finger wagging, because the only thing you were gonna get when you did it was frustration and a helm-ache. 

Deadlock didn’t care. Hadn’t cared. Because his Autobot was different. 

Ratchet _understood._

He'd believed that. He still believed it, even while staring at the cold spot on the other side of the berth were Ratchet was supposed to be recharging. Where Ratchet was supposed to stay safely in his arms, finally admitting Deadlock's claim instead of fighting it. Admitting the attraction they had. Admitting the claim was _mutual._

Not storming off the berth, locking himself in the wash wracks, and refusing to come out. 

Despite everything, they were somehow miscommunicating. 

Which was stupid.

Fragging. Stupid.

He knew he’d explained himself poorly, but he thought Ratchet of all mechs would understand right from wrong.

 _‘Ratchet’s problem, is he thinks that killing is wrong.’_ He thought, only to correct himself.

That hadn’t been the point the medic was making.

The point he was making…

It was a line of thought Deadlock had buried. Avoided, right along with his reasons for letting Ratchet live, initially. He was more than aware his faction wasn’t always right, but he knew damn well there was more to it that Ratchet was saying. They had deviated. They had been hypocritical. Both factions had, that was how war _worked._

It was something they needed to drag out like this. Wasn't something they needed to let get in their way.

Except, apparently, Ratchet thought it was.

At the end of the day, they had all lost sight of their true reasons for war. Deadlock knew that. Had known that. Just as he’d known that by the time they’d all admitted to it things had gone too far. There wasn’t any going back, there wasn’t anywhere even left to go back to! That there was no point in bringing it up. Everyone was dead now, the entire war didn't matter anymore. 

The 'Con just didn’t know how to bridge the gap. How to make Ratchet understand. To let the medic know that he owned Deadlock just as much as Deadlock owned him--and unlike everyone else, _they_ had a shot at a happy ending. Without classes and castes, primes and Councils. Without high command, faction badges or endless death.  

He just didn't know how to say it.

 _‘If you want him, you’d better figure it out.’_ He thought, right before dropping his head back to the berth with a groan.

Easier said than done.


	4. Chapter 4

 

A MASSIVE thank you to SlimReaper, whose encouragement kept me focused on slogging through this chapter!  

The end of this chapter sounds like the end to the entire fic, which it is not. Consider it the end to the ‘Ratchet and Deadlock in Space’ arc haha. I am desperately trying to keep this to 5 chapters, which means I will either go back on my word or we’ll end up with a chapter that’s absolutely massive. This time it won’t take as long to find out because Deadlock interacting with other Autobots practically writes itself haha! 

Warnings: Not a whole lot. Mentions of drugs/withdrawal, murder, killing, regular post war kinda things, possessive language when referring to someone, etc. Throw me a line if you want something labeled!  

CH 4

I'm Prone to Run out of Pieces

* * *

 

It was one thing to lay claim to a mech. It was another entirely to convince said mech you were worthy of holding that claim.

Deadlock had spent two days thinking about how he wanted to do that. Prove himself. Ratchet clearly thought of him as a killer--which was fine. He was one. The dark parts of Deadlock purred its approval at the acknowledgement--that he was a powerful and successful warrior. He was a threat and Ratchet would never forget that, which spoke more strongly to Deadlock than any quiet conversation did. 

Being a threat in the Decepticons was a compliment because it meant you were too strong to be ignored. When you offered to use that strength to shield another, they knew you meant it, could back it up. They knew they were _ safe.  _

That just wasn’t how Ratchet worked.

The ‘Con had made his intentions clear as a protector. Had put himself in Ratchet’s berth, had flat out told him he was here to stay--and Ratchet had accepted. All but admitted that Deadlock was the stronger mech here, and that he wasn’t going to fight. That was as good as things got, in the Decepticons. A mech above you has chosen to take care of you in the romantic sense, do you accept, yes or no?  

_ ‘He didn’t say yes  _ or _ no.’  _ Deadlock thought, watching Ratchet carefully check over the star charts. _ ‘But you know you have him. He’ll come around to the rest of it.’  _

Except he wasn’t going to, and they both knew it. Ratchet was hung up on schematics. Morals and ethics and other scrap Deadlock never cared to think about. 

There was more to it than that. Of course there was. Hate sex was great but it wasn’t what they  _ could _ have. It wasn’t what he thought they’d be. Deadlock wanted a connection. He wanted Ratchet to smile at him like he used to smile at Drift. That closeness they had been headed towards, that acceptance. He wanted Ratchet to start the fragging conversation first because Deadlock didn’t know where to even begin. 

Two days to think and all he’d come up with was what he was missing. The small pieces--the important bits. 

Too bad the important bits didn’t do anything to help him bridge the gaps. 

Which lead him to where he was now. Staring at a datapad, looking to see if anyone else had ever been in this kind of situation. There had to have been at least one, right?

_ ‘Can’t fragging hurt to look, anyway.’  _ He thought darkly, before accessing the internet. 

Maybe someone else could tell him how to he could get what he wanted. 

xXx

Someone was going to have to be the adult.

Ratchet knew it was him. Had known it was him, but he’d held out, if only to enjoy the week of peace he’d managed to acquire--and to give himself time to think. It wouldn’t last long, and the longer he allowed things to go unsaid, the higher the chance that Deadlock would try and fix things became.

Ratchet wasn’t sure about a lot of things, but he damn well knew he didn’t want Deadlock’s attempt at an olive branch. Not to mention the ‘Con had been spending an unusual amount of time helm-deep on a datapad and was growing increasingly pissy at it. He hadn’t thrown it yet but Ratchet figured that was only two clicks away.

There were some other things, floating at the back of the medics mind anyway. Questions and ideas and a general feeling of exhaustion. A very big, pragmatic part of him kept insisting they couldn’t be the only two mechs left in the entire fragging universe, but it was choked by the stilted conversations and long, awkward silences. The unanswered comms and the images of deserted, destroyed bases, taken from satellites.  

When it came down to it, Ratchet couldn’t live like this. 

He was grumpy and annoying and a pain in the aft, but he was a social mech, above it all. He needed people. Wanted people. 

Wanted Deadlock.

_ ‘There.’ _ He thought, finally giving himself permission to have that thought. Letting the ghosts he kept with him finally know the truth.   _ ‘I want Deadlock.’  _ Despite all he’d done. Despite all he stood for. 

Deadlock was murderous, yes. He was an aft, absolutely. He was crazy, fanatical, and all those other bad words that would land a good mech in the pit and Ratchet was still drawn to him like a spark to the well. 

Destiny wasn’t a concept Ratchet bought, but staring out the window looking at an endless mass of stars, he could almost fool himself into accepting it. 

A bang startled Ratchet out of his thoughts, and he turned to find the mech in question had forcefully thrown down his datapad. 

“Showering.” Deadlocked grunted, storming past him.

Ratchet didn’t bother to acknowledge. 

The gunner hadn’t approached him since they’d slept together, though he cast baleful optics when Ratchet refused to recharge with him. Hadn’t been pushy at all, so at least  _ something  _ had gotten through. It was enough to give a mech hope that he’d get all the way through--but he knew that would take time.

_ ‘You have nothing,’  _ He thought darkly _ , ‘-but time.’ _

There was no point in waiting any longer then, was there? He knew where he stood now. At least, he knew enough of himself to know there were some things he would never accept, but a whole lot of things he could--and that Deadlock, was something that was firmly in the latter category. 

So he’d start today. Start something today, anyway. 

The medic’s plans, as they always did, fell relatively quickly into place once he finally decided what his course of action was going to be. Fast enough that he could enact it while the ‘Con was still in the washracks. 

It might not be the best thing, but it was at least, a sign. 

Ratchet knew Deadlock enough to know he’d interrupt it as such.    
  


xXx

_ ‘You have no new messages in your inbox.’ _

The words were starting to become haunting. It was ridiculous to expect anything from it--and really, Deadlock didn’t. No one was on  _ The Big Conversation _ or any other Cybertronian based site. No one Cybertronian in nature was on the internet or anything like it, period. 

What he did expect was to come up with a fragging  _ answer, _ in regards as to what the hell he was supposed to say. Or more importantly, what was taking Ratchet so long to start one of those stupid Autobot conversations! Something like;  _ ‘To trigger a conversation you must first produce food.’ or ‘You need to wait exactly five days and six clicks for your Autobot to get tired of the being upset.’ _ or even ‘ _ Autobot medics need to hear X, Y, and Z before admitting they do better with the company of famed Decepticon Generals.’  _

Instead all he got was a glaring reminder that his species was as good as extinct, with the forums acting as a live-description of how each base went down. Day, after day, after day. 

It was gruesome, and not the kind Deadlock was used to encountering. Yet he found himself scrubbing through the forums endlessly, both in search of a solution to this fragged situation and for any general signs of life. 

All he saw was what he’d always seen. Pages of mechs updating their situation until it slowly peeled off, week by week, larger and larger numbers of users growing silent, until a few stragglers where left asking if anyone else was alive. Then a long pause, and Deadlock’s own posts. _ ‘‘Everything I read says Autobots should start emotional conversations but mine isn’t, how do I trigger that?’ ‘How do I get an Autobot to look at things from a Con perspective?’ ‘Tarn if you’re reading this go frag yourself.’  _

It was stupid. 

But it was something to do, and so Deadlock continued to check it every day, letting the awkwardness grow between him and Ratchet while he did. He didn’t want to try and...talk, without some kind of a plan. Ratchet apparently, felt the same. 

Which pissed him off because the stupid emotional shit was what Autobots were _ known f _ or, but no. He had to pick the one Autobot who was more of an ass than anything else, and who clearly couldn’t see when he’d been given space to do all the stupid mushy Autobot stuff. If Ratchet just--blurted out all his feelings like a newspark, then Deadlock could at least have something to go off of. Nevermind that the whole reason he liked Ratchet was because he didn’t do that and- _ -frag!  _

Primus, he was going to have to be the one to do something, wasn’t he? Truly and seriously? 

Slouched against the shower wall, recycled water cascading down his back, knowing his first attempt to “do something” had failed, Deadlock finally admitted to himself that there would be no right way to do this.

The only thing he knew he could do, was admit the truth.

Ratchet was the weakness he couldn’t live without. 

He just wasn’t sure he wanted to go there yet.    
  


xXx   
  


_ ‘Decepticons and Autobots are different and--’ _ \--Nope. That was dumb. That was really fragging dumb.

Deadlock growled at himself and tried again. 

_ ‘Look we both have problems, so let’s not make them worse.’ _

Also no. Not a good place to start. The fragging “enemies-to-lovers” manuel someone had written said non-confrontational was a good place to start, and even though Deadlock knew the thing was written as a joke he thought it had a few good ideas anyways. 

_ ‘Why can’t we just interface and be together and scrap without weird emotional problems?!’  _

Three strikes, but at least that one was closer to his truth. 

Deadlock dragged himself out of the washrack, feeling worse than when he’d gone into it. No one had written any pointers on how to have a talk with someone you weren’t trying to manipulate and Deadlock was rapidly discovering he was scrap at doing anything that didn’t involve threatening bodily harm. 

Ratchet stood once he entered the control room, and for a moment Deadlock thought his prayers had been answered and the medic would live up to his horrid factions reputation--but the medic just swept past him. 

“My turn.” He said gruffly, moving into the washrack and closing the door behind him. Deadlock watched him go, feeling the pressure to do something mounting higher and higher. It was enough to make his plating itch with the need to move--he’d never been one who’d done well in confined spaces. 

Pacing sounded like a good idea, so that’s what he did. 

The first few laps were frantic. Moving to get the energy out. Eventually he slowed, and by the tenth lap or so Deadlock found himself back in his own head. 

It took until his twentieth to notice the table. 

Ratchet’s supplies had been laid out, a datapad with a cataloging program next to it. Deadlock had to color himself impressed--even he hadn’t thought Ratchet had the subspace to hold everything here. He knew better than to rifle through anything. Knew better than to even get close. What a mech carried with them was personal and yet, he was curious.

_ Ratchet  _ knew better, he corrected himself as he wandered over. Laying it all out like this and then leaving it unguarded was practically an invitation. Or perhaps this was meant to him to look through--a distraction, so that Ratchet could take his first shower in peace.

He reached a hand out, drifting servos over items as he cataloged them himself. Survival gear, extra rations, medical equipment. There was such a range of things that it lulled Deadlock for a moment--enough that when his optics passed right over a familiar shape. His servo’s however, didn’t miss a thing. 

He froze when his fingers came into contact with the package, knowing instantly what it was. Optic’s wide, Deadlock brought the packet up to be examined, holding it as though it might burst and kill him at any moment. 

Syk. 

Not a lot of it. Certainly not a tweaker’s stash.  Enough, he realized, to get a mech about his size through withdrawal. The realization of what it was actually hit him and suddenly Deadlock found himself able to vent, not realizing he’d stopped altogether. 

This was for him. 

Ratchet had intended for  _ him  _ to see this. 

It was an offering, if Deadlock was suffering. Withdrawal was horrific, and withdrawal after a battle even more so. 

Withdrawal after thousands of years was fatal. 

Something tight in his chest finally eased, settled. Everything had gone so poorly, the reactions harsh enough that Deadlock had thought he may have damaged whatever it was that connected him to Ratchet. That the medics silence might mean he was done dealing Deadlock entirely, and had decided instead, to just do what he needed to until he could get away. 

Here, was the undeniable proof.

Ratchet _ cared. _

The sight of the Syk sickened him but even as Deadlock dropped it he couldn’t help but revel in that knowledge that Ratchet had left this all out for him. Had known Deadlock would snoop, that he’d find the Syk. That the Autobot was pissed off and furious and full of spite, but had gone out of his way to help Deadlock anyway.

_ This  _ was why the ‘Con could never let him go.

There was no other person comparable to him. No other alive like him. 

Even if he rejected Deadlock, even if he refused to let the mech touch him, even if he hated him with every spin of his spark. 

Even if he ended up with another mech. 

He was Deadlock’s. Just as Deadlock was  _ his.  _

Ratchet deserved his loyalty, more than anyone else--on either side--did. 

He would fix this. Them. He would start a conversation today, even if it went nowhere. 

It was the effort Ratchet deserved. 

xXx

“We need to talk.” Deadlock said, standing dead center in front of the wash rack door and nearly giving Ratchet a spark attack. He recovered quickly, thoughts immediately leaping to the one burning question that had been on his processor since he’d thought it up. 

“Do you need more syk?” He asked, making his voice as neutral as possible. 

“ _ No _ .” Deadlock said forcefully, then took a vent, clearing trying to calm himself. “No.”

Thank Primus for that! “What about then?” Ratchet said, making a gesture for Deadlock to step back. Deadlock did after a moment, clearly caught up in his own helm. The result was that for each step Ratchet took forward, Deadlock would pause and  then take his own step back. He never once looked away, optics staring straight into Ratchet’s own, until Ratchet had backed them into the ship’s control room. 

“This.” Deadlock gestured between them, then after a long, painful moment added; “Us.” 

Ah. 

“Ok.” Ratchet said. He found himself expecting to be surprised that Deadlock had started this  conversation, but realized that, subconsciously or not, this was the outcome he’d expected. He stood waiting--and then kept waiting, watching Deadlock as evenly as the gunner was watching him. 

“I don’t know how to do this without fighting.” The gunner finally grit out. It was clearly painful for him to admit that, almost as painful as the two of them simply facing each other, fields carefully tucked away. “I don’t want to fight.” 

“Honestly kid, I don’t either.” Ratchet said. “So how about we hear each other out. I think the two of us can manage that.” He waited for Deadlock to acknowledge before continuing, and accepted the stiff nod he got knowing that’s all the gunner would offer.  

This wasn’t the first emotionally constipated conversation he’d had with a berserker, and he knew well enough by now that if it was going to go anywhere, he’d have to lead. The fact Deadlock knew it needed to happen would hopefully be enough to keep him here through it and if not--well. Ratchet guessed he’d just have to wait the mech out and try again. 

You’re right.” He started, knowing this was going to be his own painful part. “The war got out of hand, and nobody in it is innocent.” Which was true. He’d always known that. 

Knowing it and admitting it to an enemy were just two different things, and a lot harder to swallow than Ratchet had thought it’d be. “I’m not. You’re not. I can’t say I won’t ever stop blaming you, but I know most of that is because I blame myself.” 

Deadlock frowned. “Why?” 

“Because people died. Friends of mine died. And I didn’t stop you from killing them.” There. It was out in the open now. Time would tell if that was for better or worse, but it was what he needed to say, and he was willing to accept whatever came of it. 

“You killed people I knew.” Deadlock said stiffly, clearly trying to keep ahold of his own emotions, face just as carefully controlled as his tone was.

“I know.” Ratchet responded. “I wouldn’t blame you for being angry with me for that.” 

“I’m not.” 

“I know that too--and that’s what makes this difficult. For me.” Ratchet scrubbed a hand down his face. Thought about how he wanted to put into words. “What we have isn’t going to go away and I know that now. I’m done running from it. I just need you to know that it’s not--easy for me.”  It was important that Deadlock knew--not that Ratchet thought the mech would take it into consideration. 

Admitting this was purely for him. To say it. Accept it, and the path he was putting himself on. 

“I don’t care if you blame me.” Deadlock replied. Then; “Things are easier with you. Better.” He said it quietly, like the words were something he had to protect. Ratchet caught himself blinking, amazed he’d ever admit to such a thing. “I want--,” A pause, as Deadlock struggled with the words, “--you to feel that, too.” 

“That’s the thing kid.” Ratchet said, with the smallest of smiles. “Being with you  _ is  _ easy; and that’s what’s hard later, when I’m in my own head.”

“We’ll have to keep you out of there then.” Deadlock said, voice serious, making Ratchet laugh. 

“Guess so.” He agreed, pleased when his own smile was returned. Even if it was small. 

Then the struggle was back on his face. Ratchet took a moment to admire it, how clearly Deadlock let him see the conflict in himself. This small slip of the mask he wore. Ratchet expected him to have his own issues, mentally forced himself to listen to them. He’d be reasonable, he told himself. No matter what came out of Deadlock’s mouth. 

Nothing could have prepared him for what did. 

“I can’t live without you.” He finally got out. “Even if you don’t want me. Even if you hate me.” He took a step closer, squaring his shoulders, standing as proudly as a Decepticon General could. “I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.” 

The shock was back, and this time it nearly bowled Ratchet over. Emotional whiplash felt a whole lot like the real thing, and Ratchet was entirely unprepared for it. 

They had danced around each other for so long, built each other up so much, that they’d stopped seeing reality a long time ago. Ratchet saw it now, the self-conscious, desperate interior that Deadlock concealed. The mech who never wanted to be in the spotlight, who did best when he had orders to follow. Who was currently lost--and pinning all his hopes on the person he’d chosen to attach himself to.     
  


He knew Deadlock’s loyalty was only given to those he trusted, to those who had earned it. Kept earning it. The choices he made weren’t the best, but they were made, not simply chosen. Because once you got it, Deadlock would practically self destruct with you, if that’s what you wanted, and for all the mech’s bluster, no one was stupid enough to think he took that lightly. 

It was clear now, that he wasn’t just trying to lay a claim on Ratchet. Wasn’t just marking the medic as his and going about his way. 

He was trying to get Ratchet to claim him as well. 

Ratchet thought back, to the gunner’s other choices. Megatron--and Gasket. People Deadlock had leaned on, had accepted--and people who destroyed him. Or tried to. It was difficult to see past what Deadlock, what _ Drift _ , could have been. To accept reality.

He had a long time to do it though.

Longer still to think about his own sins.

It was like time was suspended, and Ratchet could see their future. Would he be enough, to keep Deadlock together? He’d thought so once, when the ‘Con had been Drift. Thought so again when he tried desperately to lure the mech over to the “right” side.

(Was it the right side? Had the Autobots been right? They’d had their own hand in the apocalypse, hadn’t they? Other species certainly didn’t see a difference between the two. Most days, Ratchet hadn’t either. But that was a thought for another time, a direction his mind desperately wanted to go in so he couldn’t focus on the problems facing him now.) 

_ ‘Would you do any better than they did?’ _ He asked himself. It was easy to say he’d do better than a tyrannical dictator and a drug addict, but would he really? Ratchet knew himself. He was an alcoholic on his best days and a drunk on his worst. His temper was legendary. He’d never considered himself fit enough to be a romantic partner for anybody, and he’d certainly never envisioned he’d pair off with someone so psychotically loyal. 

Except he had, and it was all a lie, because the real reason he’d always pushed people away, was because he was _ already attached to Drift.  _

_ ‘You both fucked up. You can either get what you want now and work with it, or hate yourself for the rest of your life.’ _ The inner-Jazz voice said, despite Ratchet having been convinced he’d banished it.  _ ‘What are you gonna do?’ _

When put like that…

“We can share the berth--if you’d like.” Ratchet said, because what else was there to say? Deadlock wouldn’t care for a proposal and Ratchet wasn’t going to waste one on him. 

The smile he got in return nearly broke his spark. Because for five seconds Deadlock had been gone--and Drift had come back.

_ ‘What if he never left, mech?’ _ The Jazz voice teased. _ ‘What if he’s just buried in there?’  _

What if indeed. Ratchet rose, gesturing for Deadlock to follow, leading the way to the berth-room himself. He wasn’t sure what he’d do once he got in there, but he knew whatever it was, he was okay with it.

Deadlock would never be Drift again, but he could become a mix of the two. 

That, Ratchet thought, would be a mech he could hand himself over to. 

 

xXx

Ten months, two weeks and a day later, a message appeared on  _ The Big Conversation.  _

“To all and any survivors; 

The remnants of the Decepticon and Autobot armies have converged on earth. All are welcome to join us, provided they adhere to the agreed upon laws currently set. 

Attached is the location of our current base, a list of survivors, and the contract you will be required to sign before entry.

We hope to meet you there.

\--Ultra Magnus.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Split the final chapter into two, it is!
> 
> Fair warning, some of this is a little jerky? Like I could spend a lifetime writing "Deadlock interacts with pissy Autobots" but it shifts from being a story to just being a weird slice of life that features Deadloock being a shit and Ratchet snarling at him and everyone else for it lol. 
> 
> Warnings: Typical, as before.

Unknown is what I would be  
If my whole purpose here wasn't to speak

* * *

 

Deadlock was nervous.

Ratchet wasn’t sure what about--he personally, was ecstatic. People were alive! People he knew even! He’d had the list pulled up ever since Ultra Magnus had sent it, and practically slept with it up it was such a comfort. 

But the closer they got to Earth the more off Deadlock got. Ratchet had spent enough time with him--a full year, now--to know how to read him. Pacing, twitching, snappy comments and general waspish attitude--yup. 

Nervous.

It wasn’t until he woke up to the Decepticon pinning him to the berth, biting the medic’s neck, field filled with a possessive frenzy that Ratchet started to put it together. 

Deadlock was nervous he’d leave him. Reject him, now that there were clear survivors. 

Ratchet’s first reaction was to snort and think about how stupid that was--until he realized it wasn’t. They may have been stuck in space for more than a year now, but they’d been stuck alone. Or rather, they’d been the only two surviving members of their own species--they’d encountered plenty of alien life (most of which was entirely unfriendly towards them.) 

Adding in other people--people from both factions, people who might be working together in name only, and make a lot of noise about them being together, could make things messy. Take all of that and consider that Deadlock was used to being thrown aside for someone better and Ratchet could no longer blame him for it. 

Nevermind that they’d grown co-dependent. Nevermind that Deadlock was the type to want to cuddle every night (though he denied entirely) and Ratchet could no longer sleep without his presence. Nevermind that once Ratchet had made his decision there wasn’t a spark alive who could talk him out of it. 

Nevermind a hundred other small things that had somehow become important over the last year. 

Apocalypse or not, Ratchet was with Deadlock for the long haul. There was no fear of the war restarting--there weren't enough of them left to pull it off. Anyone who still wanted to fight was welcome to it, for all Ratchet cared, so long as they knew he thought they were idiots and that he wasn’t going to fix any injuries from such encounters. 

If anyone protested their arrangement, well. Ratchet had outlived most his species.He could damn well do what he pleased, at this point.

He’d already sent a note to Ultra Magnus explaining his own situation regarding the ‘Con. The response he got had been accepting, if neutral--the impression being that the survivors were committed to working together. 

All that was left was explaining it all to Drift. 

That was easier said than done--Deadlock had gotten better at listening, but he still wasn’t good at it. Blunt, Ratchet decided, would be the best course of action, as it always was, and so, two days before they finally reached Earth, Ratchet put a hand on the gunner’s shoulder. 

“Hey. Even when we land, we’re still in this together.” He said it firmly, loudly. “I’m not leaving you.” Would never leave him.

Mostly because the asshole would just chase him down again, and Ratchet was done running.

“Good, because you’re stuck with me.” Was the immediate, snarled response. Ratchet ignored it, opting instead to brush his own, possessive field against Deadlock’s, leaving it there until the mech convinced himself it was legitimate and relaxed. 

Ratchet kept it up the rest of the way, knowing if nothing else, it would at least prevent the gunner from acting like an idiot the second he stepped off the ship. 

But just in case, right after they landed, Ratchet took a few extra steps to make sure things would go smoothly. The kiss he gave was fierce, more biting than loving, and the force of it had slammed Deadlock’s back into the wall. The gunner had been wholly unprepared and simply accepted, vents kicking on when Ratchet finally pulled away. 

“There.” He said smugly, at Deadlock’s off-kilter face, “Now behave.” 

“No promises.” The mech choked out right before Ratchet hit the button to lower the door. 

xXx

Six, brightly colored Autobots fought each other in a rush to get through the base’s doors. Two bulldozed their way through to the front, running down the ramp, shouting. Deadlock took two pointed steps to the right as they hit the Ratchet in unison, practically taking the medic to the floor. 

The hug looked like a wrestling match for a minute, until Ratchet lost his patience and snapped; “Enough!” They entangled themselves from each other awkwardly, the medic grumbling good naturedly the whole time, the yellow and red mechs making a show of grumbling back, all so they could touch each other more. 

It was the exact kind of stupid Autobot thing Deadlock had been expecting and he couldn’t helped the snicker that escaped him. Which of course, alerted everyone to his presence. 

He had enough time to recognize the famed Team Prime frontliners before each had whipped about, putting themselves between him and Ratchet. 

Like that would do them any good. 

“Sunny, ‘Sides, this is Drift.” Ratchet said, speaking all three names casually and not as though three berserkers were facing off close to him. Of course, that may have been because he’d spent more than a year in close quarters with Deadlock, and at this point, was more immune than ever to threat posturing. 

Two snarls corrected him, speaking over each other.

“It’s Sunstreaker.”

_ “Deadlock, _ Ratchet.” 

The medic made a dramatic show of rolling his optics before strolling forward, to the other mechs now running towards him, purposefully abandoning all three mechs to each other.

Giving the twins a fanged smile, aura still thrumming with threats, Deadlock followed. 

He kept one optic on his medic, and saw the moment Ratchet accepted that the next group running towards him  _ was _ going to take him to the floor. 

Ever the faithful companion, Deadlock paused once he caught up, graciously allowing Ratchet the time to find his feet among the swarm.    
  


xXx

Getting settled was an adventure in and of itself. 

It had been made clear before their arrival that something was wrong with the chain of Decepticon command. Ultra Magnus had been the only mech to be in contact with them, and the quick video chat they’d had with him hadn’t revealed much beyond the fact that Deadlock would likely be assuming control of that half of things. 

Privately, he’d sent a message on landing, to Ratchet saying he was personally relieved to hear of their “arrangement” purely because of that. None of the surviving Decepticons were anywhere  near high command. So far they had been open to Ultra Magnus taking command and beyond a few scuffles, had adjusted fairly quickly to living among Autobots. 

Knowing that was a lot different than seeing it. Ratchet had long grown used to Deadlock’s purple badge, but seeing multiple ones on mechs surrounded by orange walls was jarring. 

“We have two functional spaceships. A small jumper and a supply ship.” Ultra Magnus was saying, conducting a tour through the base once half of it was done stacking on-top of Ratchet. “The Ark is acting as our current center of operations but as you know, it’s long been too damaged to fly.” 

Old news--the Ark had been on earth for almost a century now.  

“Earth has recovered fairly quickly compared to other planets the Combiner War effected.” Magnus continued, while pointing out additions that had been added after Ratchet’s departure. “Humans do still exist,  we just don’t see many of them out here--though we do have a handful who live on base.” A meaningful look was given to Deadlock as the larger Autobot added; 

“We consider them to be _ full  _ Autobot members.” 

Deadlock made a low, rude noise, but both Autobots ignored him. Ratchet had given the gunner a bit of a crash course on humans once he realized they had survivors as well. The ‘Con was skeptical, but then, everyone was skeptical, until they physically faced a human.

Damn things grew on you. Ratchet wasn’t surprised Ultra Magnus was defensive of the base’s humans.

“We are still working on reaching out to any other survivors of our own species. We believe there may be a few--we’ve had glimpses of contact with Cybertronian ships--we’re just not sure if they’re receiving our messages.” He continued on, pointing out what equipment they had. Earth, even now, was still a goldmine for energon, and most of the current effort was being put into making proper buildings. 

“That appears to be it. Deadlock,” Magnus turned, staring seriously at the former General, “I have been assuming you will be taking command of the Decepticon forces?”

“Yes.” Deadlock said, and didn’t offer anything more. 

“Good. I want to talk to you about cementing the treaty, when you’re ready. My hope is to hash it out further, for the good of both sides.”

“Fine.” Deadlock grunted. He was nearing the end of his patience and both Autobots could feel it. 

Magnus, showing the smallest glint of social skills, dropped whatever else he wanted to say. “Good. I’ll let you both rest then.” 

::Finally.:: Deadlock said over comms, showing his own odd moment of social grace. ::I thought he’d never shut up. Come on, I want to go to our room..:: 

Knowing better than to argue, and feeling quite tired himself, Ratchet agreed--and pointedly pretended not to notice the shocked expression on Bumblebee’s face when the minibot caught them entering the same room. 

He discovered it had blown into a base-wide issue when they’d emerged from their “nap” a few hours later, but by then, he’d already decided a simple, snapped; “Get over it!” would be the only response he gave.

He should have known it wouldn’t be enough. 

 

xXx

Rooming with Ratchet hadn’t gone over well with most the Autobots. 

Deadlock didn’t care.

Every stare he caught was returned with a smug smile. Every glare with a fanged one. He strode around the Ark like one of the peacocks in the humans movies, knowing he was the chosen companion to their beloved medic and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it. 

Even if he could see they all desperately wished they could.

They no doubt would try too--later. Not even the Autobot twins were stupid enough to try Deadlock on his--and Ratchets-- first day on base. 

“Could you at least be nice about it today?” Ratchet asked, arm over his optics before they both got up the following morning. 

“Maybe.” Deadlock said, tracing a finger down the medics arm. “Probably not though.” 

Ratchet rolled his optics, shoving Deadlock until the gunner let him up off the bed.

Which Deadlock did--but not before demanding his morning kiss. 

Their morning kiss turned into a morning rut and it wasn’t until someone was banging on the door yelling that Ratchet finally made his escape from his Decepticon. 

“Hold on!” He barked, quickly wiping down his plating and making himself look generally less messed before throwing open the door.

“You’re late.” Sunstreaker accused immedatly, standing with arms crossed. 

“We thought we’d check in on you,” Sideswipe said, almost over his twin “--because we know you’re  _ never  _ late.” 

“Late for what?” Ratchet grumbed, before making an ugly noise. “For checking over an empty medbay and cataloging all the things I don’t have?” Nevermind the things he had on his and Deadlock’s ship and yup, for once in his life, he’d been late on purpose. 

Ten minutes wasn’t going to make much of a difference when it came to how out of luck the medbay was. 

“Late to check on your _ patient _ .” Sideswipe said, glaring now that he’d caught sight of Deadlock. 

“Yeah. Patient. Needs care. Now.” Sunstreaker added, his own glare targeting the gunner. 

“The patient isn’t one of _ you _ , is it?” Ratchet made sure his voice held enough of a threat to make sure both mechs knew he was not in the mood for shenanigans.

“No, an actual patient. The ‘Con medics’ got him in a coma, but I’m sure he could use a _ real  _ medic looking him over.” Sideswipes glower turned murderous as Deadlock, draped lazily across the berth, smirked at him and dragged a hand down a particularly bright red streak marring his black painting. 

“Before he bites it.” Sunstreaker added, fury filling his field. 

“Then why the frag did no one tell me that yesterday!” Ratchet spat, shooing them out of his way so he could storm through the door. 

“Had to make sure you were okay first.” Sideswipe said, still trying to crane his neck to see the gunner, even as Ratchet forced him backwards. “From your travels.” 

“Make sure you didn’t need help getting rid of _ unwanted attention _ .”  Sunstreaker bit out. 

The promise of violence was starting to fill the air and Ratchet opted to do something about it before Deadlock stopped being amused and instead chose to take the twins seriously. 

He cued his hab door to shut, still using his own body to back the twins up  before the they managed to talk their way back into it (and straight into a fight with Deadlock.)

“Have a good day,  _ pet. _ ” Deadlock yelled right before the door closes, blowing an obnoxiously loud kiss right after. 

Two engines revved in rage--and signaled the beginning of Ratchet’s oncoming processor ache. 

 

xXx

“Why,” Ratched said, voice thunderous in it’s fury as he stared down at Thundercracker’s offlined body, “--did no one _ tell me about this yesterday!?” _

The seeker was bad off. Newly replaced armor indicated he’d taken a few hits too close to the spark, wield lines showing he’d straight up lost a wing. 

The work on said wing was rather impressive--Ratchet could only tell it was an entirely new one because he was looking closely. That Thundercracker had been placed in a medical coma wasn’t a good indicator for how the rest of him was healing, however. 

“Because I’m here,” A haughty voice cut in. Ratchet turned his head like a mech possessed--and promptly found himself staring into Knockout’s smug faceplate. 

“--and I’ve already done all I can for him.” A smile crawled it’s away across said faceplate, the same way a virus spread. Slowly. “Hello Ratchet.” 

“ I’ll decide that for myself.” Ratchet said, annoyed. “After I look him over.”

“Oh?” One perfectly polished finger tapped against blinding, red armor. “Who put you in charge?”

“I did, because you’re in  _ my _ medbay.” Except it hadn’t been Ratchet’s for a long, long time, but he didn’t care. Not right now. “You want your own, there’s one on Deadlock’s ship.”

Of course it wasn’t Deadlock’s ship, it was _ their _ ship, but Knockout didn’t know that. 

“Mechs, mechs.” A third voice interrupted, and Ratchet’s optics narrowed into furious slits when Breakdown emerged from  _ his former office _ , “You’re both amazing medics, there’s no need to fight.” 

The bulky mech strode forward, a metal plate welded over one optic and the other flashing with mirth. “I think Thundercracker here would prefer it if Ratchet looked him over, just in case something could be done, though.” His tone was placating, soothing.

Ratchet wanted to punch him.

“Fine.” Knockout sniffed, after a long moment of staring at the larger mech. 

Ratchet didn’t bother to acknowledge. He’d already been running his scans during Knockouts little snit, and simply moved to more physical ones once he trusted the idiot wasn’t going to try and attack him.

Or worse--help. 

xXx

With Ratchet firmly in the medbay, Deadlock’s own day was free and clear.

Which meant it was time to start making sense of this mess.

He strode easily through the Ark’s halls, familiarizing himself with it rather than heading somewhere specific. Most mechs relied on maps too much for Deadlock’s taste--he preferred his own memory, and the edge that gave him should he ever need to defend the place. 

“Sir!” A mech said, leaping to his feet as Deadlock passed. The gunner didn’t acknowledge him, instead mentally cataloguing who he was with the list of names they’d been sent. According to Ultra Magnus, there was twenty-seven survivors total: fourteen Autobots and thirteen Decepticons. (Well. Fifteen and fourteen, if you included himself and Ratchet.)

The Autobot group made sense. The remainders of Team Prime with the addition of Ultra Magnus’s ship, and the little space shuttle who could make a trip on his own. 

The surviving Decepticons however, made zero sense. 

Thundercracker and Skywarp were the only mechs from high command, unless you counted Soundwave’s cassette twins. Nevermind how odd that was to see them without their carrier or any of their siblings present. 

Then you had an Arakkis mining team, three of their guards, Astrotrain, a medic and  _ his _ guard, what appeared to be a handful of technicians, and _ Swindle _ of all mechs. Arakkis was nowhere near where the technicians should have been, Astrotrain had been doing fuel runs in the north quadrant last he’d heard and Swindle was supposedly part of the combiner Bruticus. 

Even from the perspective of randomly, grouped together survivors, it didn’t sound right. 

Nevermind that if the seekers were present, then Deadlock should never have been tasked with leading the remaining ‘Cons--and that Ultra Magnus’s count was off. 

Part of that question was answered when his walk took him past the medbay, and he recognized Thundercrackers prone form laying on a slab, in-between bickering medics. 

It did not explain the remaining half, which was why Skywarp was being excluded. 

As the third of the command trine, he  _ should _ have been the automatic leader. Supposed bumbling idiot or not. 

The Decepticons didn’t hand out free passes. Skywarp held and defended his position in the command trine, the same as Thundercracker and Starscream did. This had come with a lot of challenges during the beginning of the war as mechs jostled to knock him off such a highly ranked spot. 

Things calmed as the war progressed, and Starscream's particular brand of crazy revealed itself,  but every once in awhile someone would get it in their head to try and give themselves a promotion. 

Skywarp was one of the few fighters Deadlock would not want to face in battle. 

Deadlock knew how seekers operated--just as most Decepticons did. Seekers made up most of their army, after all--flyer social customs and norms were a part of daily life. He hadn’t thought the command trine to be trine bonded, but if they were, then Starscreams disappearance or absence, combined with Thundercracker’s health could have left Skywarp unfit. If he had been bonded to either of the two mechs, he might have been struggling.

Deadlock wasn’t a fool though--struggling didn’t mean “unable to do a job.” Many seekers could still carry on even during a lost bond, and the trine bonds were made specifically so that they could be dropped and replaced with ease. They weren’t exactly a spark bond. 

So no. He didn’t think the exclusion was due to Skywarp refusing to take the position. If it were then that would be a bridge Deadlock would cross later--but for now he sought more logical reasons why the seeker wouldn’t take command. An injury? He hadn’t been present in the medbay…

That train of thought took Deadlock right into the mess hall--and put the mech in question directly in his line of sight. 

Skywarp was definitely alive and well.

He was also being pointedly ignored by every Decepticon in the room. 

Deadlock’s optics narrowed in thought. 

Not one Con was even looking at Skywarp much less acknowledging him.

No, they were looking all at him. As if watching to see how he’d react.

React to what?

Deadlock scrutinized the seeker further, making it clear that was exactly what he was doing. 

It took longer than it should have for Deadlock to spot the obvious. 

Skywarp’s wings, clearly recently repaired, no longer sported the normal splash of purple in the shape of the Decepticon insignia. Instead, two, square faces of red caught Deadlock’s optics. 

A rapid-fire chain of thought occured. Deadlock made no secret of it, this consideration. Skywarp had noticed, turned toward him even, so Deadlock could get a better look. He was slumped against a table, arms casually crossed, letting the conversation he was involved in trail off as he waited for Deadlock to connect the dots.

The gunner didn’t disappoint.

“Double agent?” He guessed, optic ridge raising.

Skywarp flashed him a winning smile. “Yawp.” 

Amazing, considering how long he’d been in the command trine. Since before the war, as far as Deadlock knew. Which meant--

“Starscream never knew?” He asked, not believing it. 

Skywarp shrugged. “He probably did. Probably didn’t care, either.” 

Which was actually a possibility, now that Deadlock thought about it. If anyone was crazy enough to work closely with a double agent for a millenia, it’d be the Screamer. 

Which meant the attention given to him was simply the other Decepticons waiting for him to make a decision about it. If he snubbed Skywarp, they would too. If he out-right attacked him, they would follow--or at least, not interfere. 

This explained Ultra Magnus’s relief at someone taking over the Decepticon half of things, and his insistence at forcing treaty agreements before their ship had even gotten close to Earth. Having the highest member of your faction ending up being a double agent put a wrench in a lot of things.

Of course, how the others reacted to it could be the real wrench. No wonder Ultra Magnus had tried so hard to get him to talk before allowing him to stalk freely around the base. 

Well. Too late now. 

There was weight, in this moment. Deadlock felt it. However he reacted, whatever precedent he set, it would be followed until someone higher than him--more respected than him--came along. 

He could restart the war, right here. 

It was tempting, if only due to the amount of violence it would cause. Deadlock hungered for it for a moment, that violence--felt it in the tension rising in the air around him. He came close to giving in, tilting his helm and watching Skywarp pretend he was relaxed--before Ratchet’s face abruptly popped into his processor. 

It held him. 

He couldn’t restart the war and keep Ratchet too--even he knew that. So he relaxed instead, forcing his body into a non-threatening stance. He cast a grin at Skywarp; making sure it read as friendly to the Decepticons around them, even if it looked threatening to everyone else. 

“Then let me be the first to congratulate you on your decepticon.” He said. “I’d award you for it but I think that might make the Autobots pissy.” 

Skywarp, sensing the danger had passed, relaxed his own stance and gave a roguish grin. “Hey I’m not picky. An awards and award!” 

“Yes, but  _ our _ awards are better.” That was said as a husky purr--and the scandalized look he got from the Autobots in the room was well worth it. Skywarp merely agreed, tossing the gunner a wink, and Deadlock watched as tension bled out of the air.  

Or rather, out of the present Decepticons. 

He strode from the room, continuing on his own little private tour, leaving Skywarp to explain to the Autobots why he no doubt felt a whole lot safer.

Just because Deadlock didn’t want to face Skywarp in a fight didn’t meant he wouldn’t, and neither did it mean he would lose. 

Skywarp knew that--just as he now knew that Deadlock was fine with him as he was. 

Autobot or not. 

 

xXx

Knockout and Breakdown had -- _ finally!-- _ left, leaving the medbay to Ratchet.

Not before both medics had gotten into it twice, of course--and not before Bumblebee had popped in.

Knockout’s optics went rolling the second they spotted yellow plating, and if anything, his retreat seemed to be contributed fully to the smaller mech, as he said something to Ratchet about how “You can deal with the riff-raff if you want the position of CMO back so badly.” 

“Glady.” Ratchet shot back, making sure the ‘Cons were well out of audio-range before whipping about to face his next challenge. 

“Thundercracker saved my life.” Bumblebee explained, once Ratchet shot a questioning look his direction. “Those shots on his chest were meant for me. He took them instead.” 

There was guilt in his voice. Guilt Ratchet knew he couldn’t help--that no one could help. It would only dissipate if Thundercracker himself told ‘Bee to knock it off, and Ratchet wondered how likely that would be, even if he did get the seeker back up and running. 

He didn’t bother to ask what had happened that had caused Thundercracker to willingly take a shot for the yellow bug either, but then he didn't need to. Several combiners had simply lost their mind at the end,  destroying everything in their path instead of the side they were supposed to. It was part of why everything had gone to shit so fast--both sides had built up and built up these mechs to be monsters, then acted shocked when they behaved like one. 

Plenty of alliances had been made. Personal, professional, allowed or not. When you faced death with someone enough, when you were forced to lean on an opponent to help you, things changed. 

This was just one such change. 

“I didn’t actually come here to see him.” Bee continued, after a melancholy moment. “I came to see you.”

Of course he had.

“That so?” 

“Yeah.” Bumblebee looked up, optics sad. Serious. “I just wanted to make sure you knew. About Deadlock.”

“Knew what?” He asked. He itched to return to reclaiming his medbay, putting all his tools in the right place and using passive aggressiveness to tell Knockout to fuck off but he knew 'Bee well enough to know when the mech needed reassurance. 

A lot of people likely, were going to need private assurances. Ratchet couldn’t blame them--he’d be hauling in anyone who’d decided to shack up with someone of Deadlock’s reputation himself. 

It didn’t make things any less annoying. 

“That he’s the type to have a kill list--and get through it.” 'Bee explained. ”I don’t know what he’s told you, or how you guys came together--but Jazz sent me near him more than once.” As a scout or spy, Ratchet wasn’t sure.

He didn’t want to know, either.

“He’s--obsessive, Ratchet.” Bumblebee continued, clearly picking his words carefully. “In a bad way. And right now, he’s obsessed with you.” 

Well. It was a lot better than what Ratchet was expecting (better than the “concerns” the twins kept airing) and something that he knew deserved an honest answer. Even if he didn’t want to give it.

“Deadlock has had a claim on me from the start of this war, and he’s been obsessed with me before that.” Ratchet explained, gently. “He won’t kill me. And as long as he stays with me, he won’t kill  _ anybody else  _ either.” That wasn’t directed at Bumblebee, but at the mech in question, as though the asshole could hear him.

Knowing Drift he probably could. 

“A claim?” That seemed to alarm ‘Bee more than it should, until Ratchet remembered claims usually meant one mech had a personal reason for killing another and wanted to make sure no one else got there first. 

“It’s complicated, kid.” He said gruffly, because he didn’t actually know if Jazz had ever passed any intel on about Deadlock, or if he even knew the reason why Drift wouldn’t kill Ratchet. He probably thought he did, but Ratchet wasn’t  stupid enough to hand out the real answer, just in case. 

Not even to Bumblebee, at the end of their apparent war. 

Some things you just couldn’t admit.

“I can promise you that I’ll do my best to stay safe--so long as you do.” That was punctuated by a pointed look at Thundercracker and the way ‘Bee’s hand had drifted to one of the seekers. 

Bumblebee thought that over, venting slowly. “Ok.” He said, giving a small, if pained smile. “Glad you’re back.”

Ratchet gave him his own smile. “Me too kid.” 

 

xXx

Everything settled after two months. 

Mostly.

Deadlock had made a game out of antagonizing the twins, who in return did their best at rubbing how much Ratchet liked them in the gunners face. Their actions had ended all three in hot water with the medic on more than one occasion--though privately, many of the Autobots thanked the twins for pushing the ‘Con, as it showed how much power Ratchet had over him.

The medic disagreed entirely--and privately, thought half of his own peers fools. You didn’t control Deadlock, in the same way humans had never controlled a tiger. You either caged it or won its affections, and which side you landed on depended on how it felt about you that day. 

He was too busy trying to make sure everyone stayed alive to interfere though--and by time the three berserkers had finally gotten on the last of his nerves, Ultra Magnus had received news of another surviving ship. 

_ Optimus’s  _ ship. 

“We are coming in with several wounded.” The mech had said, speaking as gravely as he ever had, static fuzzing the transmission. “More than that we must warn you--we are being followed.”

“Come anyway.” Ratchet demanded He hadn’t bothered to put it to vote, and only thought about Drift two seconds after he’d shouted.

A questioning, if not panicked look, sent the Decepticons way simply caused the gunner to nod.

“Do whatever needs to be done.” Deadlock said simply. As if whatever was chasing Optimus couldn’t harm them, couldn’t destroy what little they had saved. 

Ratchet loved him for it, in that moment. Loved him for all the things he did when Ratchet couldn’t--and loved him for understanding and standing behind him when Ratchet needed to do the things he could. 


End file.
